A Birching Scene

I’ve been on a Paul Little jag lately. Here’s another example. Little wrote (as A. deGranamour) a lurid piece of 60’s flagellant pulp called “The Peculiar Passions of Lady Meg.” In it three ladies in waiting to Queen Charlotte, wife of George III play a prank on the queen. She is not amused. 

As punishment they are to be sent to the colonies as indentured servants to one Lady Meg–a real piece of work. You read about her in part 2. But first they are to be publicly birched in the courtyard of the royal palace. 

The scene goes on for over 100 pages. Whew! It’s almost a blow-by-blow description. Really for the hard core flagellation aficionado. But I’m going to publish a little of it to give you a flavor of how Little does the scene.

Tom lowered the rod to the floor of the scaffolding, measuring his distance, appraising the firm, ample ivory ovals of that luscious naked bottom given up to his flagellatory skill. Aware that Charlotte Sophia herself was watching, he determined to acquit himself with valor, for this might be an opportunity to win royal favor and rank as high as the man to whom he had been apprenticed these four years. He watched the young woman’s buttocks tighten and shudder, as all her muscles came to her defense, and he waited his time, to prove he was no novice at this art. When he saw the cheeks of Gloria’s bottom relax their contraction, he suddenly drew back his strong young right arm and swung the birch out horizontally, taking a step forward, so the withes fell fantail across the upper summits of both naked bottomglobes.
The shock and the surprise of the first cut overcame what remained of the brunette’s already dispersed courage. With a convulsive jerk at her bound wrists, her head fell back and her mouth gaped in a raucous scream: “AAHHRR! ! ! OH DEAR LORD, SPARE ME, IT HURTS, IT HURTS ME DREADFULLY, OH SPARE ME, I’LL XEVER DO IT AGAIN!”
“One!” Master Dickon imperturbably counted. He had risen, standing at the victim’s right, his muscular, hairy arms folded across his chest, and his eyes glistened through the slits in the hood. He was a burly rogue in his late forties, heavily set and stolid, and it was his boast that he had broken some of the most distinguished criminals in all England on the wheel and made them linger longer than his predecessor, who had been a valorous dispatcher of criminals for the greater glory of the Crown.
He watched critically now, for his own skill was indirectly tested. It was he who had taught Tom how to apply the birch as well as the cat, and it must be done slowly and dramatically, spinning out each possible nuance of torment and terrified anticipation of the next stroke, until the victim’s nerves were completely attenuated. The cries and the bodily movements of the culprit during chastisement would be the best clue to the efficacy of the flogging.
This first stroke was well placed, he silently approved, as he eyed his young assistant Bright pink stripes formed vivid parallel upon the ivory escutcheon of Gloria’s naked behind. Now that she had had a taste of the lash, she would be the more vociferous and mobile under the following cuts. Squinting at his aide, he waited to observe how Tom administered this first of three whippings before the eyes of the Queen herself.
The birch was lowered to the floor of the scaffold now, as Tom again gauged his distance. Moving slightly more to the left and a step back, he now drew back his right arm, hovered the rod in the air, then lunged forward. There was an angry Swishuish as the withes sang through the air and curled with an angry and crisp impact against the very middle of both nether hemispheres. Gloria Talmadge stiffened, her head twisted back and her eyes dilated and filled with tears, then she jerked frenziedly at her bonds and arched forward, grinding her furry cunt against the whipping post as she shrieked “EEEYEEOWWW!!! DEAR GOD, I’M ONLY A GIRL, YOU’LL KILL ME! OH THE PAIN, THE PAIN, FORGIVE ME, OH HAVE PITY!”
‘Two,” Master Dickon remarked and, catching his aide’s eve, gave the youth a brisk nod of approval. The vivid tracery of the switches against that tender nacreous flesh dramatically and lasciviously accentuated all the immaculate ivory beauty of Gloria’s nakedness. Arabella slightly turned her head, and she saw that those seated in the pavilion were craning their necks to absorb the spectacle before them. She did not lift her eyes to the second floor of the palace where Charlotte Sophia broodingly watched the carrying out of her heartless decree.
Hirishhhh! The second cut was placed perhaps twenty-five seconds later and again without warning, as the executioner’s aide whirled the rod overhead and then stepped forward to send it slashing across the base of Gloria’s naked posterior. Once again the young body jerked convulsively at the whipping post. The knees bent, the loins ground feverishly, with a kind of salacious suggestiveness of self-masturbation, against the chafing rough wood of the whipping post. Then that agonized and lovely face was turned back over Gloria’s bare white shoulder, bathed in tears and contorted in indescribable suffering as her mouth gaped to emit the piercing scream of “AIIII!! OH, MERCIFUL HEAVEN, I CANNOT STAND SUCH PAIN, IT’S CUTTING ME TO PIECES’ OH, HAVE MERCY ON A POOR HELPLESS GIRL!!”
“Three,” the executioner proclaimed. Now, content with his apprentice, he directed his contemplative gaze at the two remaining victims, both of whom he personally would birch. The Lord Chamberlain had this morning personal informed him that the red-haired baggage was the guiltiest of all and must have more than her share of the switching. By the Rood, she would without fail. The haughtiness of her attitude, coupled with her vivid and sensitive beauty, stirred in the cruel heart of the royal executioner a satanic resolve to break her spirit, to humble her more than her companions. He would save the full strength of his arm for that saucy backside of hers. He would shame her and make her beg for mercy. That was Master Dickon’s resolve.
By now the count had reached six, with fourteen lashes left. But already, distributed as they had been from the tops of Gloria’s ivory hips to her thighs, her bottom was furiously inflamed with the horrible striata which Tom had inflicted on her tender flesh. Her reactions delighted the spectators. There is always a sort of lustful enjoyment of such scenes, and from the dawn of time man has lusted to see his fellow man agonized by torment and by execution. The morbid festival of lust is always in vogue, regardless of the era of the setting. And the delicacy of savoring the lovely nakedness of this unfortunate beauty at the whipping post served to inflame the male spectators the more.

Nine cuts remained. Slowly, seeming to prolong the interval between lashes, Tom inflicted the next six to back and shoulders; till at last, the sixteenth lash fell on the prisoner’s naked bottomcheeks. But this time he applied the lashes diagonally, first attacking the right hemisphere, leaping the switches over the tightening, shadowy furrow which led to her virgin bottomhole, dealing thus two strokes from right to left.
Again he paused, and moved to the right. He inflicted the last two lashes from left to right, leaping the rod across the huddling, inflamed hemispheres. Each of the strokes drew piercing screams, incoherent pleas for mercy.
Despite the severity with which he had flogged the naked brunette, Tom glanced at his master to call the latter’s attention to the fact that nowhere had he broken the skin. It was purplish and inflamed at many points where the twigs had nipped and where the long, slender withes had crisscrossed the previous marks. As he lowered the rod, Tom considered his handiwork and was secretly pleased with himself. This young bitch would have a difficulty in sitting down for quite some days. And she would need plenty of ungents and soothing salves before the skin of her back and bottom would lose the fiery heat he had engendered.

Again, he would lay two or three quick lashes on without pausing, but each attacking her at a different vulnerable and tender area of her pink-sheened body. One blow bit against the middle of her back, the tips of the switches whisking round to sting her waist and tender side. The very next, with scarcely any pause, slashed diagonally from left to right over the huddling hillocks of her bare bottom. A third, with hardly a pause, attacked the upper curves of her shuddering thighs. She began to caper from foot to foot, desperately trying to escape the burning lashes of the birch.
By the tenth lash, her cries were louder and shriller than poor, weeping Gloria’s. Out of the first ten strokes, Master Dickon had laid six over the jutting roundities of her velvety smooth bottom-globes. Their contractions, their yawning and shrinking uncontrollably, provided a salacious treat for the rusty males in the eager audience. And for the executioner himself, as well for though Master Dickon was a bachelor and shunned by women who knew his occupation, there were times when he would journey to some remote village in the provinces to carry out the execution of some notable culprit, and then he would act the gallant with some none-too-discerning tavern wench or farmer’s daughter.
His eyes blazed with lust through the slits of the hood and he resumed Beatrice’s flogging. The last ten cuts were mercilessly prolonged to almost a full minute between stripes. Nine of them fell on that shuddering, welted, squirming, jerking bare bottom, and the last slashed across the tops of Beatrice’s straining and flexing thighs, tearing from her a veritable yell of frantic, intolerable suffering.
Sweat glistened on her welted body as she sagged from the whipping post, head bowed, knees bending. Her buttocks were bid now, the stripes turning from crimson almost to purple. Here and there a drop of blood pearled at the interstice of some of the striata. The bulky rod was frayed and a profusion of twigs lay scattered on the floor beneath the writhing, inflamed burning bottom.

“I’m sorry, my lady, my heart’s not in this work. You and those two there are quality, and shouldn’t have to be treated like—well—low hussies.” Tom muttered back. He made fast work of affixing her wrists to the metal rings set at each end of the crossarm of the whipping post. Then, with an apologetic. “Forgive me, my lady,” he set his hands to the neck of her gown and ripped it down with a brutal tug. Arabella closed her eyes and took a long deep breath to fortify herself. She gasped again because the young assistant once again seized the tattered gown at the hips and tore it down to her ankles, then tugged it off her body.
In order to shorten the atrocious ritual of “preparation” for the birching. Arabella had left off her stays and petticoats, as, indeed, had Gloria, and Beatrice before her. She, like they, wore just a chemise, and a thin camisole under it — a kind of jacket with straps which covered the bosom and the back down to about the midriff — her drawers, hose, garters and shoes. Now it was the time for the chemise to be ripped off; and a gasp of admiration, loud enough to attract the attention of the beautiful red-haired prisoner at the post, rose at the sight of this voluptuous, lithe, graceful body so tautly presented with extended arms, on tiptoe, all her fine, agile muscles quivering and in play, in this scanty and provocative dishabille.
Charlotte Sophia leaned forward over the windowsill to follow the stripping of this proud vixen who, in her opinion, was the worst of the lot, the one who had instigated this ridiculous trick which had so insulted her regal person. She wished she had made it the cat-of-nine-tails instead of the birch, and doubted the number of lashes instead of only twenty-three, one for each of Arabella’s age. But at least, she-thought grimly to herself, the little Dime would receive many more lashes under the hot South Carolina sun, toiling on one of those cotton or tobacco plantations. She had given orders to the Lord Chamberlain to see to it that Arabella’s indenture, even more that the lot of the other girls, be directed towards one of the harshest task masters, so that Arabella might well expiate her sin.
The young assistant now ripped away the camisole, and an even louder gasp rose at the sight of Arabella’s magnificent titties, their dainty coral points stiffening with the cool air of this cloudy May morning. What magnificent, erect and arrogant globes they were, hard pears of pale creamy flesh flecked delicately with myriad rosy nuances, that exquisite speckling of epidermis which attested to the natural tint of Arabella’s hair and the pigmentation which supplemented it!
Her sweet belly was flat, and the dainty niche of her navel was exposed, an adorable eye which seemed to wink at the avid spectators, very narrow and deep, so furtive that My Lord Bruce Warrington, the first comptroller of the Royal Treasury, who had a penchant for thrusting his turgid penis into the bellybutton of his concubines and there achieving orgasmic fulfillment, seriously doubted that the sweet circumference of Arabella’s navel would allow such introduction.
Master Dickon, who was examining the remaining birch rods soaking in the two brine-filled buckets in order to select a proper instrument for the fustigation of Arabella Clarisson’s behind, now called out in a low voice to Tom. “Don’t rush things so, man! Let ’em enjoy the baggage’s bare skin! Let her wriggle about a bit before you take down her drawers. You’ll have a better tip for your work, take it from an old hand at the trade!”
Arabella’s lovely creamy cheeks turned scarlet with mortification as she overheard this obscene suggestion. She steeled her muscles as she pressed herself against the rough upright post, finding that she had been bound so tightly at the wrists and in such a pose that she had to exert all her muscular strength to stand on tiptoe if she did not wish the tight cords about her sensitive wrists to chafe and dig cruelly into the tender skin.
The spectators could see through the tightly molding white batiste sheath of Arabella’s drawers the magnificent choreography of her buttocks, those solid and enticingly contoured ovals with which her long, supple and beautifully sculptured thighs merged in such harmonious juncture and it promised a highly entertaining spectacle when the drawers should be removed and those pale white, rosy-flecked bottomglobes should quake and contract and jiggle and dance under the stinging switches of the executioner’s birch.
Arabella Clarisson waited in a growing agony of suspense, praying that it would be over. Half a dozen times she was on the point of crying out to the executioner to begin the punishmenby the mental torment which always augmented the physical.
The cool air laved her titties, flinting the coral buds in those dark-coral aurolae. As she pressed herself, the sides of her titties rubbed against the rough wood, reminding her of where she was and what awaited her. and she shuddered violently at this foretaste of pain to come.
“Oh. God. let it start, let it start before I cry out and shame myself before that vicious sow! Arabella thought as she prayed to retain her sanity in this awful moment of degradation. And as if in answer to her prayer, she suddenly felt the strong fingers of the young executioner’s assistant on the waistband of her drawers. He pulled the waistband open, grabbed the tops and then slowly peeled the garment down from the glories of her jutting bottom ovals. Slowly, like a connoisseur delectating over that Callyphygian regalia. Tom drew the sheath down inch by inch so that those who watched might rhapsodize over the gradual unveiling of the firm, quivering, satiny oval hillocks! Arabella tensed herself, and arched her loins forward in an instinctive virginal attempt to hide the dark-red curls of her maiden bush from those besmirching eyes. Now she felt her drawers slither to her ankles, where they remained out of a refinement which the executioner himself designated with a gesture of his hand.
And she stood ready for the birch, naked to the stocking tops, the lovely, deeply hollowed spinal column making her back a wonderful canvas of soft creamy flesh, which culminated in those two temptingly ripe and firm, succulent bottom ovals with their gradually broadening furrow hiding its mystery in the ambery-shadowy groove which separated them.
All was in readiness now, and the spectators were agog with libidinous excitement. For Arabella Clarisson was the most beautiful of the trio, the oldest, the most courageous, and. it was well known, the ringleader of all these merry pranks which had finally boomeranged to bring her to this demeaning scaffold before the members of the court and the royal household.
Master Dickon rose, having selected the birch. It was a long and supple sheaf of switches, about seven of them carefully selected and profusely twigged so that the green buds would add additional sting to the tender quivering flesh of the naked prisoner. He brandished it in the air. whistled it over his head, as he slowly approached, with a heavy and ponderous dignity befitting his royal service. Here, in his opinion, was a magnificent bottom on which to work, one on which he could show the full gamut of his mastery. The girl’s skin was delicate and delightfully sensitive, he was certain. And now he took his place at Arabella’s left, his eyes feasted on the tensing ovals consigned to his punitive arm. observing with a silence view the resilience of the flesh, the contortions and the twitchings and palpitations which pervaded Arabella’s naked flesh and which, in his role of torturer and executioner, told him much about the victim’s temperament and her ability to withstand the flogging.
“You will count twenty-three, Tom,” he announced in his gruff voice. Arabella again drew a long breath and tremblingly tightened her muscles, arching on tiptoe, her calves and thighs quivering with the tension of her muscular resistance to the rod. She bowed her head, as in meditation, her eyes tightly closed. But she could hear the murmur of voices, unintelligible and yet, she knew, commenting on her naked charms, speculating on her ability to endure the flogging without crying out or pleading for mercy. And she knew that Charlotte Sophia was surely still watching at that window, waiting to gloat on her torture. She would bite her tongue off before she would utter a single supplication for leniency.
Master Dickon was in no hurry. He had already demonstrated excellent skill with Arabella’s predecessor, and a glance at the still whimpering naked girl lying to one side on the scaffold beyond the post told him that she, at any rate, had no reason for complaining over her due. But this girl, the Lord Chamberlain had informed him, deserved the full brunt of the rod, a chastisement that would be unforgettable and recall to her, during her years of servitude in the colonies, the crime of lese-majeste which she had dared against her sovereign to whom she owed all fealty and respect.
He lowered the birch to the floor of the scaffold taking careful aim, while Arabella waited, setting her teeth against her underlip, her delicate nostrils dilating with the afflux of quickened breathing, the understandable sign of this atrocious and frightening, suspense.
As the naked red-haired beauty waited, she heard a chorused gasp of “Aahhh!” and with a shuddering anguish knew what it betokened: the rod had risen in the air and was en route to deliver its first biting kiss. And then she felt the scalding-hot dash of the supple switches curl across both buttocks, just below the hips, and the shock of it forced a convulsive jerk of her naked body against the whipping post and drew a stifled “Ohh!” from her compressed lips.
“One!” the executioner’s assistant called out in a ringing voice.
Master Dickon lowered the rod and studied the tensing creamy bottom before him. The first cut had left thin parallel bright pink streaks over both cheeks of Arabella’s bare behind, and they were deepening now and darkening as the cool air caressed the palpitating flesh. He could see how the muscles of her sinuous calves flexed and shifted as she prepared herself for the next cut. and he smiled dourly to himself. She was a proud upstart, a fancy, pampered vixen who doubtless had never known such castigation. He would have her howling before a baker’s dozen, or his name was not Reuben Dickon. Nor had he been called by his Christian name since his mother’s death; as an apprentice in his teens, he had served as an undertaker’s assistant and thus learned his first crude lessons in human anatomy which were to stand him in such good stead when, a dozen years later, he was appointed as assistant executioner at Sheffield. And then, five years thereafter, when the chief executioner had fallen ill from too much wine, he had topped off five highwaymen one after the other in chains from the gibbet, and then tied them to remain as grim warnings for those who would lurk in ambush upon the King’s highway to rob a coach. He had put many women to the torture before hanging or burning them, and only the month before he had racked a handsome matron in her mid-thirties condemned for the crime of poisoning her husband with arsenic. He had prolonged her ordeal for more than two hours until she had died shrieking in torment. He did not doubt that this proud baggage would be shrieking ere long.
Grinding his teeth together, he stepped forward and sent the birch whistling across the base of Arabella’s naked behind. Again she jerked convulsively against the whipping post, grinding her furry snatch against the chafing wood, her head lifting a little, and her eyes opening under the ferocious stinging impact of the switches on her soft sensitive skin. But this time she had been prepared for it and she had-ground her teeth too to hold back any outcry. Nonetheless, the uncontrollable shivering along her thighs and calves and into the cheeks of her tightening buttocks told the executioner that she had not been impervious to the stroke.
“Two!” Tom announced.
There was a long pause until the next stroke, and Arabella nervously shifted from foot to foot, harassed by the stricture of her tender wrists against the cold heavy iron rings at the cross-arm. She bowed her head, she drew several deep breaths and prepared herself for the onslaught of that wicked, swishing rod. Out of maiden modesty, she continued to contract the muscles of her bottom to hide the shameful intimacy of the mysterious, shadowy crease between the oval globes. Master Dickon smiled again. She was an obdurate piece, this one! And judging from the way she squirmed and jerked that sweet arse of hers, he would wager his entire fee for this morning’s work that she’d never been so much as bare-bottom smacked by her folks when she was a child. Else she would know that the stiffening of the muscles only makes the rod bite the more greedily and cause the more pain.
Then suddenly he lofted the rod, waved it in the air, and brought it down with a direct vertical sweep over the left buttock, the tips of the switches biting against the tender side and the edge of the hipbone, the full impact of the withes harshly stinging the plump firm curve of the summit. Once again taken by surprise. Arabella Clarisson jerked convulsively, and turned her face slightly to the left, as a stifled moan rose in her throat. Her nostrils flared and shrank as she fought for breath, and she was forced to shift from foot to foot to ease the now aching bite of the cords around her slender wrists.
“Three!” Tom announced.
Instantly, with hardly a moment of respite. Master Dickon whirled the birch above his head, and then drove it down on the right buttock, in exact counterpart to the previous blow. Arabella writhed and twisted violently from side to side, the firm mounds of her bottom jiggling and quaking in this peroration, and again her head rose, her eyes very wide now and blurred with tears, while a strangled “Ohh!” was finally wrested from her as Tom called out the fourth stroke.
Gloria and Beatrice watched from where they lay, their own pain momentarily forgotten as they perceived the stoic courage of their dearest friend. And they, like the spectators, gasped aloud as they saw the hooded executioner step back, the birch extended horizontally in the air and then step forward to deliver a sweeping slash over the base of both huddling naked creamy globes.
“Oh—ahh!” Arabella Clarisson gasped aloud, and for the first time she glanced nervously back over her shoulder to see the dread figure of the executioner.
Master Dickon smiled with satisfaction. The little baggage felt that one, there was no doubt about it. And the striata left by the switches had now created a lascivious pattern on the pale creamy, rosey-speckled bare flesh of that voluptuously provocative posterior. She had eighteen cuts left, and he meant to give her three or four on the back and shoulders and perhaps one or two across the thighs before concentrating all the rest on that saucy arse.
In the pavillion of spectators, one of the foot-soldiers was whispering to a lace-capped chambermaid. “Poor wench, and all because of a spiteful Hanoverian who doesn’t know how to take a good English joke! ‘Tis a pity to see such a lovely backside ruined by the rod.”
“If you are so sympathetic towards backsides. Master Brendon.” the sparkling-eyed black-haired maid impishly retorted, “you may see mine tonight in my chamber when all the rest have gone to sleep. But only if you use another rod. more merciful and less blemishing to my soft flesh, hark you!”
Talk about purple prose. At times this seems to border on parody. Sort a text version of Mystery Science Theater. But back in those days…well these books sold well in the local Adult Bookstore by all accounts.

 

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One response to “A Birching Scene

  1. nice descipition of a very sound and well derserved birching

    Like

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